


The Ghost and Mr. Fell

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, M/M, Minor Character(s), Post-Canon, Supernatural Elements, Vintage Horror Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: Leave it to Crowley to go and disappear the moment Azirapahale inherits a country house.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley loved movies.

Action movies. Adventure movies. Action-adventure movies. And all right, sure, even those rather sultry dramas which invariably took place in some hulking country house or other and reminded Crowley of just how much he'd hated wearing powdered wigs and stockings—

The sort of movies Aziraphale made a show of describing as a "tour de force" or a "whimsical romp" or even a "puzzling attempt at avantgarde filmmaking that fell woefully short of the mark," but which Crowley didn't mind, not really, as long as the angel shared the bag of high-end chocolates he'd smuggled into the cinema.

Also: James Bond movies, which were of course always a satisfying combination of action, adventure, and sultriness.

It was for these that Crowley dropped enough cash to make a demon blush into installing a next generation home theatre system in his flat. And every now and again – perhaps, say, when Aziraphale told him he was up to his proverbial pinfeathers in collation, but was in fact enjoying his monthly nail treatment – Crowley likewise made time for a bit of that self-care stuff people were always on about: he spent a pleasant evening with a takeaway curry and a bottle of wine and romp with the old gentleman spy.

Because his television screen display was so bright and detailed and _lifelike_ that, should he find the motivation, he could count with accuracy the threads in Bond's suit, it didn't at first come to mind that the man himself was staring right at him.

However, it _did_ seem a bit out of character for Bond to address his audience directly, and so it was that Crowley's suspicions were effectively raised.

 _CROWLEY_.

There was a snicker-hiss sound as the television was overcome by static – which: _really_? the thing was digital! – and then the voice came again, louder, _CROWLEY. WE KNOW YOU ARE THERE._

"Er," Crowley admitted. "We meaning... who, exactly?"

_DAGON, LORD OF THE FLIES, MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER-DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT._

"Oh. That we."

_WE ARE DISPLEASED, CROWLEY._

"And why is that, lord?"

_YOU KNOW WHY._

"I do."

And this was true.

Crowley loved movies, which was why he had, at Hell's behest, commissioned what was inarguably the most expensive, most pretentious, most mind-bogglingly brainless and bland and bloody _boring_ movie of all time.

It was three and a half hours' worth of a menagerie of A, B, and C-listers caught up in a wholly incomprehensible plot over a backdrop of grotesquely gratuitous explosions – the film featured nearly two thousand pyrotechnic events, all told – on land, at sea, and in space.

_YOU'VE COST US A GREAT DEAL OF CREDIBILITY. TEST AUDIENCES HAVE PREFERRED TO ENDURE THE JAWS PIT RATHER THAN SIT THROUGH A SINGLE SCREENING OF YOUR FILM._

"Yeah, but _Jaws_ still has the Spielberg thing going for it no matter how many sequels they make."

Silence.

Behind the shield of his sunglasses, Crowley rolled his eyes. Of course, Dagon wouldn't know a spot of humor from a rather nasty rash. He sighed and ventured on: "All right. But credibility is overrated," he said. "And that's only the _damned_. An eternity of suffering rather seeps one of cultural interest, don't you think?"

_YOU WILL SOON FIND OUT FIRSTHAND, CROWLEY. YOU WILL HAVE PLENTY OF TIME TO THINK ABOUT IT._

"Listen. Just give it one more chance. Think of the tie-in merchandising! Action figures, beach towels, tubes of toothpaste, kitchen appliances, snack cakes—" now he was really beginning to pick up steam, "—designer bags, baby clothes, fast food franchise licensing. Novelizations... no, _junior_ novelizations!"

_THE FILM RECEIVED AN R RATING BY THE MOTION PICTURE ASSOCIATION OF AMERICA, CROWLEY._

"It did?" This at least was news to Crowley. He cleared his throat. "Look, I'll handle everything. I'll even pop round the studio in the morning to sort everything out."

_IT IS TOO LATE._

If Crowley protested, it was only for an instant. And then everything went dark.

*

"And so imagine my surprise when I received the letter in the post Tuesday last," said Aziraphale. "I hadn't known my... cousin... had a country house, to say nothing of a country house he would bequeath to me. But I must say, the landscape is remarkably beautiful here. Have you ever seen finer fields?"

"No, sir, but perhaps if it wasn't so dark out, I'd be more qualified to make a decision." The cabdriver did not raise his eyes to the rear view mirror as he spoke, nor did he really seem to be listening, so intent was he upon the road ahead. He signaled his turns and drove slower than the prescribed speed limit. It was more than a simple bout of meticulousness. If anything, he was being _careful_.

Aziraphale couldn't help but wonder how the man had chosen his vocation, and then immediately felt a pang of guilt. But what else could he do? A wistful thought cast in the direction of the Bentley was out of the question: those things had a way of adding up.

Even when the driver swerved, he did so with confidence, concern, and resolve. He kept both hands on the steering wheel, turned the cab left and right, downshifted, and then pushed down on the brake pedal with a soft yelp, "Badger! If I'd half a care, I'd see to it that you didn't cross the road at such a-- Oh. You're all right, sir."

Aziraphale smoothed his clothes, straightened his tie, and adjusted his spectacles. "Yes," he said. "And why did the badger cross the road?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The badger."

The cabdriver blinked. Then he said, meditatively, "I imagine he wanted to get to the other side."

"Oh?"

"On account of the scenic racing track that's being built not two miles beyond yonder primordial wood. If you listen closely, you can almost make out the sound of resting cranes."

"Oh."

"Now, now. Chin up, sir. That's progress for you."

Aziraphale sighed and pushed his hands over the smooth leather of the seat. The bags at his feet seemed suddenly larger and more cumbersome than he remembered, or certainly than they had been that morning. But then again, perhaps it was only the length of the journey, or the lateness of the hour. He blinked and stared out at the manicured verge. "I know at least one person who would agree with you." 

"Do you, sir?" the driver mused. "Now my missus, she won't go in for that sort of thing. She's all for medical advances and the betterment of mankind, but when I try to remind her that sometimes the world itself must make certain sacrifices, she won't have it. The good of the many, I always say."

Ah. At Crowley's instance, Aziraphale had seen _that_ one. He quoted: "'The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,' you mean?"

"No sir, though I _suppose_ one might say that as well. Take me, for instance: I'm not getting any younger. I always wanted to be of good service. And then I realized people need to have things carried close to home—that international deliveries weren't the end all, be all, as one would say."

"Ah." Aziraphale blinked again, long since having jumped from the driver's train of thought. "And how long have we to go?"

"We should be arriving at our destination presently."

"Good." Aziraphale folded his hands across his lap and told himself this: if only Crowley knew what a happy time he was missing. The fresh air would have no doubt done him a world of good, but he was probably out _carousing_ , and in the meantime Aziraphale was prepared to make the best out of a decidedly _fine_ situation.

Of course, it was true enough that Aziraphale had been notified by post of his sudden, unexpected, and not wholly unwelcome ownership of Midnight Manor, though Cathetel could hardly be counted as a cousin. In fact, Aziraphale knew him but vaguely, and even so they were not without their fundamental differences.

What, then, would provoke his fellow Principality into such a state of generosity?

Aziraphale first and foremost considered himself a rational being. His immediate inclination upon receiving the news had been to seek out Crowley, and yet on the way to Mayfair, Aziraphale went from being convinced of the letter's authenticity to being convinced it was one of Crowley's more uninspired practical jokes.

He made it to Crowley's building, creaked up the stairs and then down the hall, and knocked. And he stood there several long minutes, certain Crowley would eventually open up and deny any and all knowledge of the letter. In fact, he would likely feign ignorance about Derbyshire's very existence, and then Aziraphale would be forced to write it off to the sort of temporary amnesia Crowley experienced every year around the holidays. He never seemed to grow tired of that one.

But Crowley was nowhere to be found. Aziraphale had held his ear to the door: there was the low din of the neighboring street, and here the ebb of dialogue pouring forth from the television.

"Crowley?" he piped. He peeked through the keyhole. He waited.

And then he left, traced a path through the damp streets, and huddled into the back room of his shop. It was there that he'd made his decision. He picked up the receiver and dialed the number on the estate agent's card, then said, "Yes. Yes, this is he. When is the earliest time I might view the property?"

One week and two days later, he was on his way out of London. 

So it was that he now felt a certain prickle at the back of his neck at the thought of owning such a place. A peculiar flush grew up on his cheeks. Then his breath caught and camped in his throat, for there it was: beyond the oak-lined lane, beside the river and behind a neat curtain of mist, stood a massive structure, all sprawling masonry and spires and columns.

At once, it seemed a certain folly that such a building should even exist, so great and so wide were its arches and gateways.

The windows gleamed like darkened craters on the face of the moon.

"I say," said Aziraphale.

"I shouldn't worry. When you've seen one stately home, you've seen them all, I've always thought," the driver said. Then he added, "If you don't mind my saying so, sir."

Aziraphale didn't mind. And yet he suddenly knew there was something strange about the house. The prickle on his neck circuited down his spine, and the tips of his fingers tingled as he unfolded his limbs from the car and stepped into the open night air.

And then he knew what it was: the place seemed untouched by time. The air surrounding the eaves betrayed neither the season nor the weather but took on a beguiling luminescence when glanced at from the corner of the eye.

"Curious sort of look to the lot of them," said the cabdriver. He pocketed his keys and hoisted Aziraphale's bags onto the marble stairs. When he turned to meet Aziraphale's glance, his eyes were hidden behind the flashing surface of his spectacles. "As a matter of fact, you might say this one has a bit of an _aura_ about it."

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean," Aziraphale replied, a trifle pettishly. He tilted his head. Written across the side of the car in wide, Gothic letters was the name _Requiem Routes: Your Chariot Awaits_. Then, beneath it in a slightly smaller, more sensible Serif type: _Now Servicing Fifteen Counties_. And in larger type once more: _Ask About Our Post-Mortal Discount_. Huh, he thought, people are willing to do anything for a shilling these days. He roused himself enough to say, "Well. I'm sure it will be fine."

"I don't doubt it, sir. I don't doubt it." The driver's lips spread in something that was almost, but not quite, a cheerful smile. "Will you be needing anything else, then?"

"No," Aziraphale said, and held forth a wad of banknotes. "Thank you."

Without another word, the cabdriver returned to his seat, vigilantly buckled himself in, revved the engine, and took off down the road in a bank of shadows not unlike the billowing bulk of black wings.

Aziraphale took a deep breath.

Then he showed himself inside.


	2. Chapter 2

It began with darkness.

But then, these things usually did: vast, absolute blackness that could not accurately be described as being either up or down, there or here, and so simply _was_.

Cool.

Quiet.

And empty save for the spark of consciousness that was Crowley.

Which was not exactly an unfamiliar state of being, for in his long, varied existence, he'd found himself discorporated as much as the next fellow—though, it should be noted, nowhere near as often as the angel.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said then, though in all likelihood, the sound of his voice only existed within his own headspace. "I've got to find Aziraphale."

But why? What could Aziraphale possibly do for him now, stuck as he was in whatever backwater cosmic oubliette this was that Dagon had dug up for him?

For one thing, Aziraphale wasn't overly fond of darkness. And for another: the smell was a bit much. An acrid, sickly-sweet haze dominated the still air. Not sulfuric. But somehow sepulchral, or reminiscent of a mortuary. Bleach, ammonia—

And then again, perhaps it was only piney and perhaps... lemon fresh?

Crowley groaned and began to reach about him into the void of space, only to set his hand on a splintered wooden shaft that on closer inspection was indeed a broom handle. Further grappling revealed the forms of a mop, several feather dusters, a series of buckets, and yes, a collection of cleaning solutions, solvents, and elixirs.

He managed to set his palm on the doorknob—and then promptly shot _through_ it. His whole body followed through the door, out of the darkness and into bright morning light, revealing that, yes, he'd in fact been situated within a broom cupboard, and that yes, he was apparently still on Earth.

It also revealed the reason for his ungainly entrance into what was in fact a large and rather well-appointed kitchen.

He was purple and glowing and irrefutably, ineffably translucent.

"I've got to find Aziraphale," Crowley said again in that tremorous, far away way.

The angel would know what to do. Wouldn't he?

*

"Hello?" Aziraphale presently called into the darkness, though the estate agent had assured him that the manor was indeed quite vacant. And yet he liked the echoing sound his voice made: it fell from his mouth like a heavy object might be tossed into a well, sink into the deep waters, and never be found again.

Before him loomed the grand staircase, one flight and then another leading up through the gloom, and to either side were dusty suits of armor in a style he hadn't seen for a millennium, or perhaps of which he had never seen at all.

"Well," he said in a voice too loud to be strictly for his own benefit, "it's nice to have arrived. I know I shall enjoy my stay immensely."

As though in succinct consent, the windowpanes rattled.

"Um." He took a step forward. His bags cowered closely behind. "Let there be light."

A familiar pale blue glimmer spread through the hall, nipping at the shadow-laced walls.

One almost needs a floor plan, Aziraphale thought. But he only said, "Lovely."

Then he flipped a mental coin to select his path and set off for the library.

For what sort of county house didn't have one?

*

Two hours later, he was still searching.

It was closer to dawn than dusk, and in any normal circumstances he would have by now stopped to ask for directions. But of course there was no one around, and the stuffed, sullen-eyed beasts which made up the décor in the den could hardly be called on: he'd already tried it, halfway to his wit's end, and both lion and grizzly bear were unabashedly tight-lipped about the whole thing.

"Useless, the lot of you," he grumbled, dropping into an armchair. With a gesture, he lit a fire in the great fieldstone hearth. Then something across the room caught his eye.

It was a bar in the guise of an archaic globe, and its inked surface was more bestiary than map, but it kept the liquor bottles from becoming dusty. Aziraphale poured himself a generous helping of whisky; as took a sip, he closed the lid, and squinted down at the dotted lines of longitude and wind current. Then he blinked. In the flickering firelight, the sea serpents and denizens of dark legends seemed to ebb and flow across the curving face as with tidal pull.

Here were the swift jaws of a half-dreamt monster, there the harpoon cast out from the long deck of a Persian warship. Clouds blew cold air from the north, and suddenly the stiff letters of _Adriatic_ swung forward and reshaped into something quite different: _Aziraphale_.

The angel shook himself, but not in time to prevent the glass from slipping free of his hand and shattering on the stone floor. He cringed. "This is no time to let the hour get the best of me," he said. "Why, if Crowley were here, he'd have quite a laugh at my expense. And then I'd be forced to—"

He broke off as a bolt of lightning flared above, and the very foundations of the manor trembled with the reverberating thunder.

"Ha, ha," he managed, and pushed his hands into his pockets so they would not shake.

Then he backed out of the den, leaving the fire to flicker on alone.

The master bedroom was the next door down the hall. By the time Aziraphale retrieved and unpacked his bags, the sun had risen above the horizon, and his stomach began to rumble.

Rather than search for the kitchen, he materialized a sizable picnic, took it out to the sprawling, sun-warmed lawn, and spent the day getting caught up on his reading.

Then he did the very same the following day.

But the day after that, he was forced to begin pilfering from the manor's substantial – if peculiarly stocked, for what sort of ordinary mind would indeed have such a prevailing interest in ghosts, apparitions, and spirits – bookshelves.

That the manor itself brought to mind nothing if not the presence of ghosts, apparitions, and spirits, what with the moaning eaves and the self-boiling tea kettles and the eggs which self-immolated on the kitchen counter and the self-induced chiming of every blessed clock in the entire building, including his own inexplicably shattered pocket watch—Well. Aziraphale paid this little mind.

Until, of course, he chanced to see one such ghost, apparition, or spirit for himself.

"Oh," he said, setting his copy of _The Foolhardy Knight's Awful, No Good, Very Bad Day: A Picaresque_ down to the end table. "That explains a thing or two."

The hovering figure was of no outstanding height or breadth. His normally flesh-colored skin was tinged violet, and the cut of his suit, although impeccable, was hazy and half-forgotten. He seemed to pause for a moment, as though gathering his strength, before his translucent body began to shift forward.

Aziraphale knew him. He knew the face, the nose and mouth and spectral sunglasses.

"Crowley!" He tilted his head with an astonished smile. "Is that you?"

"Who else could it be?" Crowley demanded.

"I don't know. Perhaps my breakfast didn't agree with me. You know sausage makes me unaccountably tired. I say..." Aziraphale raised a hand to brush the hair back from Crowley's brow, but his fingers fell through to the opposite side of his head. He drew back quickly, staring down at his hand in distaste.

"Don't _do_ that," Crowley hissed, and pushed the stray lock back in place. His voice was lower than he looked, or darker than it sounded. Aziraphale couldn't decide which.

"Did it hurt?"

"No. It's only—"

"You look good."

"Look _good_?" Crowley repeated incredulously. "You've no idea what I've been through."

"Well, perhaps we can..." Aziraphale frowned. "Oh. What happened to you?"

Crowley seemed to fade for a moment, and when he spoke again, his words seemed blown across the void by some infernal wind. "Just a slight... complication. You know how it is. I was at home, minding my own... and then..." The rest of his words were stifled by the back of his hand.

"What?"

"Why do I need to spell it out for you? There was a bit of a misunderstanding. End of story. And then I was demoted."

"To apparition?"

Crowley raised his chin. "Poltergeist."

"I hadn't realized there was a difference."

"Of course there is," said Crowley, matter-of-factly. "It's all in the ability to be perceived."

"If I'd known, I would have brought along my seismograph machine."

"Oh, that's cute."

Aziraphale swallowed hesitantly but didn't drop his gaze. "Crowley," he said. "If there's anything I can do to help you..."

"It would have _helped_ if you'd bothered to recognize me sooner," Crowley grumbled. He peered at Aziraphale over the rims of his sunglasses, and Aziraphale was surprised to find he was grateful that the hue of Crowley's eyes was unchanged. "You've been here what? Two months?"

"Two months? Certainly not. It's only been..." Aziraphale paused to check his watch, but then remembered that it was broken. "Well. No longer than a week."

Crowley considered this for a moment. Then: "Time is... weird here."

"Just how long have you been trying to get through to me?"

"Since you walked in the door. But I've got to hand it to you, angel. Arriving under cover of darkness?" Crowley laughed miserably. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"Nonsense. That was the only time I could arrange for a driver..."

"What?"

"So it was you."

"What was me?"

Aziraphale tilted his head again. "The howling. The teacups. The scrabbling sound in the larder. The—the..." he trailed off as the walls shook with the reverberation of a thousand chimes. Midnight rang out in every room of the manor, cuckoos and bells and heavy bronze gongs. And then, as abruptly as they began, they whirred to a stop. "The clocks."

"Uh uh," Crowley protested. "The clocks were like that before I got here."

" _Were_ they?"

"Not to say it's a bad idea. And anyway, they're right two times a day."

"I suppose Cathetel didn't bother fixing them."

"Oh, _him_."

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "Yes?"

"Bit of a lightweight," Crowley said, a little too casually. He rubbed his hands together. "Was out of here before you could say 'Satanic Panic.'"

"Really, my dear."

"Don't look at me like that."

"It's nothing," said Aziraphale uneasily. And then: "Oh, but you didn't do anything _unnatural_ to him, did you?"

"Of course not."

"Well?"

"Just a little something I've been working on."

"Go on," prompted Aziraphale.

"You wouldn't like it."

"Try me."

Crowley drew in a breath. "Fine," he said, and was gone in a flash of fuchsia light.

"My dear?" called Aziraphale. "Um. Crowley?"

But there was no response. Indeed, the room had taken on an almost preternatural silence. Where previously the floor might have creaked and the walls might have cracked, there was only the distant sound of the wind against aged glass panes.

Aziraphale stood very still for some moments, hesitant even to breathe, but at last crossed the room and reclaimed his seat.

"Well," he murmured, draining his tea in one neat gulp, "if that's the way it's going to be." If Crowley wanted to turn this into some sort of gay spirited charade, so too could he. He picked up his book, and then resumed in a slightly more admonishing tone, "I'm going to forget you were here, Crowley. I'm going to sit here and _read_ , because that's how I enjoy spending a jolly holiday. Perhaps we can talk like civilized people once you've finished this lurking about nonsense."

There was a sudden boom, followed by the echo of feet heaving heavily up the grand stair. Somewhere in the depths of the manor, a door slammed.

The hair at the nape of Aziraphale's neck stood on end. "Crowley?" he called. And then, a little later and a little louder: "My dear boy, why don't you forget I said anything. You can come back out again." He glanced over his shoulder. "Let's talk about this."

But Crowley gave no answer.

Aziraphale frowned. The bulbous leather cushioning of his chair had grown cold in his absence, so he dedicated himself to helpfully shifting his weight from side to side. Then, against his better judgement but quite unable to stop himself, he lifted his eyes to the mean zigzags which stretched across the walls, shadows of the ancient oak outside. He could make out the scritch-scratch sound of its huge bows scraping the side of the house.

It was, not to put too fine a point on it, discomforting. And yet—

"Nonsense," he murmured, and turned back to his book with the rapt attention of a seasoned literary addict. Then he narrowed his eyes.

The letters on the splayed pages began to quiver; the lines broke down and reshaped. Each paragraph contracted and swerved, creating a quiet vortex within the slant of the spine. It was all spread swiftly before him: an idyllic countryside, a stone tower, and a strong-lined horse which bucked beneath the heavy thighs of the knight it wore like a newspaper headline.

Then the book broke furiously free from Aziraphale's hands, only to hover in midair several feet before him.

He gasped as the typeset horse and rider trotted forward and back and then bounded out from the confines of the page, landing on the carpeted floor with a thump.

For several long moments, the figure stood still. Letters sloped to form saddle, hide, and plate; the rider drew his sword in a crinkle of creased parchment. Then the horse's hooves brought them slowly forward, and the room echoed with an aged printing press' metallic crank and crash. They cast no shadow in the moonlight.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Um. I didn't mean the _story_ was nonsense," he said brightly. Then he stood and strode forward to pick up the book which lay discarded, open-faced on the ground. "See?" He brushed it off and gave the narrow leather of the spine a firm squeeze. "Good as new."

The horse took another step forward.

Oh, for the love of—Well. Crowley could be _so_ overdramatic. To say nothing of the fact that he was obviously having a laugh at Aziraphale's expense.

There was only one way to handle it: mind over matter.

"You know, you've outdone yourself with the paper armor." Aziraphale glanced from helm to neatly folded boots and nodded approvingly. "Really quite impeccable attention to detail..." He circled round to look at the horse's wide backside. "Though it seems to me..."

The knight turned to stare at Aziraphale over his shoulder. A pause, and then a quiet rasp, "What?"

"Do you know," said Aziraphale, "by any chance know how the novel ends?" He smiled up at the rider. "No? Well, the knight takes an arrow in his chest."

The rider shifted uncomfortably. A splotch of ink began to spread out from the shaped lines of his breastplate, down and down until it fell in a sodden stream across the horse's thick paper mane.

"And then he falls from his horse."

Not ungracefully, the rider followed suit.

Aziraphale's smile broadened. Then he said, "Satanic Panic."

With one paper hand, the rider lifted the grille from his eyes. "Pretty impressive, huh?"

"Really, my dear. I just can't imagine how this is an appropriate time for parlor tricks."

Crowley heaved a sigh and stood up. His horse and armor scattered into scraps and sheets and long, crackling scrolls. "To my credit," he said, as the paper faded into shadow, "this is more of a game room than a parlor. Believe me: I've gotten to know this place pretty well."

Aziraphale was suddenly overcome with a strong wave of feeling for his friend. He _would_ find out what had happened to him—and how to help him. And soon. He ventured, "Are you sure you're all right?"

If Crowley paused before he spoke, it was only for an instant. "Sure, I'm sure."

"Er." Aziraphale motioned to the front of Crowley's shirt. "You've a bit of... ink, is it?"

"Ectoplasm." Crowley grimaced. He drew his fingertips across the spot where in some other plane an arrow might have hit, and the stain was replaced by clean, violet-white ether.

"Rather handy, that."

Crowley shrugged and adjusted his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. "The one perk of being incorporeal," he said nonchalantly.

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Aziraphale. He tilted his head. "I meant it when I said the armor was a nice piece of work."

For a moment, it seemed that Crowley would laugh. But then he said, quite simply, "Thanks."

"Although... One must wonder..."

"Yes?"

"Well. Not exactly _scary_ was it? I mean, the horse didn't even snort."

"You must be joking."

"No," Aziraphale said soberly. "In fact, I find it a spot hard to believe Cathetel was even the slightest bit perturbed."

Here Crowley's mouth spread into a slow smile. "His choice of holiday reading is, shall we say, a bit more traditional."

"You mean to tell me that you _masqueraded_ —"

Crowley raised a hand to silence him. "You've got it all wrong," he said. "Your friend just wanted a two-way _dialogue_ for once."

"And how did you manage the voice?"

"It's all in the diaphragm," Crowley said. Then he added: "Slipping in a Charlton Heston line or two doesn't hurt, either."

"He's one of ours, you know."

"Really?"

Aziraphale shrugged.

"Huh," Crowley said meditatively.

"But he isn't my friend."

"Who?"

"Cathetel." Aziraphale's cough was not wholly effective at stifling his snicker. "Did you really have to spook him like that? I'm sure I'll get a memo about it before long."

"A subpoena, more like. And how else was I supposed to get you here? That estate agent was worthless! I can't be the only one to suffer through this—this..." Crowley trailed off. And then, hopefully: "But you have to admit: I had you there for a minute."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Aziraphale retorted.

"When I came out of the book. That was pretty good, huh?"

"I wouldn't say..."

"And then the thing with the sword. Not bad, eh?"

Aziraphale sniffed. "Well, I felt I ought to give you the benefit of the doubt. You've obviously been practicing," he drawled. "Besides which, isn't it time for you to warn me about the spirits who'll be visiting tonight?"

But beneath Crowley's answering scowl was an order of tiredness undreamt of by even the more imaginative sort of sleep-loving fairytale heroine, and beneath the tiredness was something rather different. If Aziraphale didn't know better, which he did, he would have suspected that Crowley was quite worried, which he wasn't.

After all, he'd said as much himself. It would be all right.

Even still, in that moment, Aziraphale's whole heart went out to Crowley at once. He longed to take him into his arms and hold him—or damn it all, at least give him a good squeeze on the shoulder. But, failing that, he could only settle for the next best thing.

And so he said, "What do you need me to do?"


End file.
